Unfinished Business
by MizJoely
Summary: A follow-up to "The Trap In The Honey, The Honey In The Trap" by hobbitsdoitbetter. MI-5 Agent Molly Hooper and London underworld figure Sherlock Holmes meet again...
1. Smooth Criminal

_Welcome to my follow-up fic to hobbitsdoitbetter's fabulous "The Trap In The Honey, The Honey In The Trap", in which MI5 Agent Molly Hooper and criminal mastermind Sherlock Holmes have an...interesting...relationship. Enjoy!_

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 **Part 1: Smooth Criminal**

 **London, Borough of Enfield 1982**

She locks the door behind her, leans against it for a moment, not bothering with the lights. Kicking off her shoes and dropping her keys and handbag on the low table sat by the front door, she pads into the kitchen. Toby mews and rubs against her ankles; she leans down to give him a quick scritch behind the ears before reaching for his dish.

She freezes as she realizes it's about half-full when it should be empty, the food too fresh to be leftovers from the morning.

Someone's been in her flat.

Someone's very possibly _still_ in her flat.

Cursing silently, she straightens up, humming a bit as she pretends she only intended to refill Toby's water dish. Putting on a show in case someone is watching her, but praying they're hiding in her bedroom or the loo. Forcing herself to keep her movements casual, she makes her way back into the sitting room - _just me, just Molly going to put my shoes away properly and hang up my handbag and oh, by the way,_ get my gun…

She makes it all the way to the low table before she's grabbed from behind. A hand slaps itself over her mouth, clamping hard, and her arms are wrenched behind her back before she can do more than touch the clasp to her handbag. "Don't make a sound, princess," the intruder hisses in her ear, and Molly's elevated heart-rate goes up to panic speed. She recognizes that voice, the voice of a man she helped put into prison six months ago, supposedly for life.

So why is he here in her flat? How did he escape?

More importantly, _what does he mean to do to her?_

She finally snaps out of her shock, her training kicking in when he starts to drag her away from the door, further into her flat. She kicks back with her stocking feet and attempts to bite but he's too quick, too ready for her. She manages to nearly knock them to the floor by tangling her legs around his; he grunts and staggers but manages to stay on his feet, damn him. She gets in a few good blows when she twists one wrist out of his hold, scratches his arm and grabs his hair, tugging hard as he stumbles, off-balance and cursing under his breath.

She tries to press her brief advantage by slamming her body against his, trying to overbalance them, knock him to the floor so she can make her escape but by then he's not only regained his footing and tightened his hold on her, but is...grinding himself against her.

Her mind goes blank as she realizes that all their wrestling for control has achieved is turning him on.

Not just him.

 _Both_ of them.

Because she not only feels every hard inch of him against her bottom, she can feel her own desire pooling in her sex. He chuckles, his breath hot on her neck, and despite the fear and anger she's feeling, a shiver of desire runs down her spine. A hot flash of _wanting_ that's so wrong, so... _depraved_...that it's swiftly followed by a cold douche* of shame.

That shame causes her to renew her attempts to escape; she kicks out at the end table, attempting to knock it over, but he swings her around and she misses by mere centimeters. When she goes limp in another attempt to bring him down, he anticipates her move and hauls her tighter to his body. "Now, now," he chides as he manhandles her closer to her bedroom door, "none of that, princess. Remember, you and me, we have unfinished business."

She goes cold at those words, the same words he'd snarled at her on the day the guilty verdict had been handed down. He'd held eye contact as he was hauled out of the courtroom in handcuffs, twisting his head round to do so as the bailiff hustled him and his psychotic sister through the door at the back of the court and off to serve their mutual life sentences.

And here he is now, in her flat, apparently about to make good on the threat behind those words.

And here she is, entirely unsure if she's trembling more with fear...or arousal.

 **oOo**

She's shaking, he can feel the trembling she tries to suppress, and he grins a cold, satisfied grin. She's properly terrified now; good. She bloody well should be. She should be shaking in her boots, begging him for mercy...begging him to fuck her again.

He frowns as he roughly manhandles her into her bedroom; he's not here for _that_ , he's here to deliver a message. To tell her in person about the deal he's cut...and to warn her to stay far, far away from him in future if she values her precious ( _soft, warm, kissable_ ) skin. It's why he broke in, so skillfully she never even noticed the tool-marks on her lock; it's why he disabled her answering machine so she wouldn't notice the blinking light, hear the message from Agent Anthea Bitch-Queen Winters warning her about his release.

 _Some things need to be done up close and personal._

It's why he made nice with her pussy _(his inner adolescent snickers at this)_ , feeding it and freshening its water to keep it quiet while he waited patiently for her to get home from yet another boring day of paper-pushing.

Her days as a field agent have been - at least temporarily - suspended because of her questionable actions at the Diogenes a year and a half ago. _Questionable actions_ being a euphemism for letting him shag her boneless in Jim Moriarty's office the night she planted the fucking bug under his brother-in-law's desk. His _still free as a bird, don't like to get my hands dirty_ brother-in-law.

Well. That won't last, not if William Sherlock Scott Holmes has anything to say about it.

Still, he can't help but notice that her trembling and increased heart-rate aren't entirely due to fear; there's a faint, delicate aroma which he's intimately familiar with, and he's certain that, should he dip his fingers beneath her skirt, brush his knuckles against her knickers, he'll find a damp spot.

She still wants him. Good. He can use that.

Or so he tells himself, trying to ignore the fact that, in spite of everything-

 _He still wants her, too._

The bedroom is at the back of the flat, with a single window overlooking the small garden patch, surrounded on four sides by tall brick buildings. The curtains are filmy things that allow enough moonlight to enter that the outlines of her furniture can be seen - the shoddy dresser (a leftover from her childhood she can't bring herself to get rid of, likely belonging to her parents before she inherited it), an Ikea wardrobe, a small bedside table...and the bed. A lovely piece of Victoriana inherited from a grandparent or great-grandparent, with a brass head- and foot-board, a worn quilt neatly spread over it, the pillows covered in frilly pink shams.

He tosses her onto the bed just hard enough to knock the air out of her, to give him time to wrap her slender wrists in the handcuffs - _her_ handcuffs - he's thoughtfully laid aside for this very moment, draped around one of the brass tubes of the headboard and now securing her in place. "Scream and I'll gag you," he advises her, anticipating her very intention seconds before her lips part. No need for any genius-level deductive abilities to predict her next actions, at least not for this moment in time.

And so it proves as soon as she speaks, keeping her voice low and even. Trying not to show how frightened she is. "What do you want?"

He leans over her, resting his hands on either side of her body, grinning suggestively. "What do you think I want, princess?"

"You're no rapist," she blurts out, and this time she's not pretending she's not scared. Suddenly her confidence is back, and he blinks in surprise.

 _Once again, she's proven herself unpredictable._

"No," he replies, trying to ignore the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. "But I am a murderer, according to your testimony."

"Accessory," she corrects him, and his brows furrow: this is _not_ how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to be terrified, cowed, in fear of her life, begging him not to hurt her.

Not calmly regaining the upper hand with just four words.

She maintains eye contact in the room's dim lighting as she continues speaking, conversationally, as if she isn't handcuffed to her own bed while a man she helped put into prison leans over her. "There's no way you've escaped, Sherlock, even with your contacts. Not this quickly."

"Could have bribed or threatened a guard," he suggests, edging one knee between her legs as he settles more comfortably onto the bed. He dips his head down low and presses a soft kiss to her throat, right above her racing pulse.

 _Intentions be damned, he's not leaving with just a warning for her to stay out of his way._

"If you'd, uhh, escaped," she gasps out as he switches to the other side of her throat, "I'd have been told. A m-message…" The last word ends on an almost-moan, and he grins and rewards her with a soft nip to her earlobe.

"Turned off your answering machine," he murmurs against her skin, feeling himself grow harder with every word. She shifts her body and he obliges the unspoken request - demand - by lowering himself so that they're touching from chest to groin.

"W-work," she breathes as he grinds himself against her, deliberately teasing. "I'd have heard at the off, the o-office."

"True enough," he concedes, leaning up on his elbows in order to reach the buttons on her blouse. It's colorful, with a bright, cheerful floral pattern, unlike the sober white and grey, high-necked granny-shirts she'd worn at the trial and sentencing. "So I haven't escaped then, you're right."

He unfastens each button with a flick of his fingers, tugging the blouse free from her skirt and spreading it open, resting his palms on her sides and just - barely - grazing the undersides of her breasts with the tips of his fingers. She inhales sharply as he presses a kiss to the valley between her breasts, even more sharply when he slides his fingers up and undoes the front clasp of her prim little white cotton bra. "So why am I here, then?" he mumbles around the nipple he's taken into his mouth.

"Jesus, Sherlock, just shut up and fuck me," she groans, arching her back and grinding her wet core against him. "I promise I'll listen to you gloating about whatever deal it is you cut - but not now. _After_."

He's more than happy to oblige her.

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 _*This term taken is from Loo & Ben's 2015 Letters Live reading of "My Dear Bessie" and used quite deliberately and against the suggestions by both hobbitsdoitbetter and allthebellsinvenice cause I'm a stubborn wench!_


	2. Danger Zone

_What the_ fuck _do you think you're doing, Molly Ginevra Hooper?_ she asks herself, even as she wraps her legs around Sherlock's slim hips and tries to drag him closer. He's handcuffed her to her own bed, come here to threaten and intimidate her...and all she can think about is how much she wants him. How much she's missed him even though she helped put him into prison with her testimony.

Well, he's free now - legally free if he isn't lying about whatever deal he cut - and kissing her senseless and letting her know exactly how much he wants her -

 _Which seems to be just as much as she wants him._

Evidence to support her case is presented in record time as he kneels up, shucking jacket and shirt, dropping them to the floor, then slowly, tantalizingly easing his trousers down those lanky hips. How he manages to be so fucking sexy whilst kicking off his shoes and stripping off his socks is beyond her; she watches the entire process through heavy-lidded, appreciative eyes and sees the curve of his wicked, wicked smile on those wicked, wicked lips.

Lips that once more descend to suckle at her breasts while his hands are busy rucking her skirt up around her waist and impatiently tugging her tights and knickers down to her ankles. She gives a little wiggle to try and get them off her feet when they stick at her toes, and he moans in her ear as his cock twitches in response. "Sorry, princess," he breathes, dipping a finger along her slit and making her shiver, "but I didn't bring a johnnie this time."

"Nightstand drawer," she gasps out, gesturing with her chin. He reaches over and slams it open, rooting around one-handed to find the condom, the other busy making her arch and stretch and almost - _almost_ \- beg for more.

He gives a triumphant little 'ah-HA' and she hears the drawer slam shut. But instead of kneeling up to put the johnnie on, he sets it on the pillow by her head and kisses her. Hard. Bruising, even. His tongue invades and she gasps and sucks it suggestively and feels a surge of triumph at his groan…

She _made him make that needy little noise._

 _Take that, secondary school bitches who told her she was nothing but a pathetic little mouse._

And then he's moving away, chuckling darkly as she makes a disappointed sound. "You want me in you, princess, you want my cock stuffed in you nice and deep, don't you."

Unbelievably he seems to be waiting for an actual answer. All she can give him is a moan and a restless twist of her body beneath his, showing him the answer. It seems to be enough because he chuckles again, nipping lightly at her ear and then not so lightly when she writhes beneath him. "Patience," he counsels. "Gotta get my treat first, don't I? Least you owe me is a taste of that nice juicy cunt of yours."

Oh _God_. She's so wet now, she can feel the dampness between her thighs, in her throbbing sex. Her body breaks out in goosebumps, sweat building on her upper lip, her hairline, her armpits, and a tiny little gasp escapes her lips as he slides down her body. He takes his time, the bastard, pausing to suckle at her nipples again, teasing each one into heavy peaks with sucking pulls that make her wonder (only half-jokingly) if he's actually trying to coax milk out of her.

He doesn't move again until she begs him to, the words pulled reluctantly, painfully out her. "Please, Sherlock, please…"

It's the first time she's said his name, said it _to_ him, and it's obvious he likes the sound of it. Or maybe it's just the begging, the fact that he's reduced her to a wanton slag in her own home.

Either way he moves down her body until finally - finally! - his mouth lands on her cunt. He gives a quick swipe of the tongue against her and she moans and bucks up to meet his greedy lips. He does that thing again, the one she remembers from their previous tryst: he licks her again, then sucks hard on her clit. She jolts up, keening, and feels him chuckle against her sex. Then that clever, dangerous mouth returns to driving her towards orgasm and she thrashes beneath him, helpless as before to do anything but give herself over to him.

He works her ruthlessly, teasing and gentle one minute, fucking her with his tongue the next, his hands clamped to her thighs, keeping her on the cusp of orgasm for so long she almost - almost - can't bear it. "Jesus, God, Sherlock, please!" she begs, hips rising helplessly off the bed.

He presses her back down with one hand, peering up at her from between her legs -

...then dives back down, his mouth hot and the press of his tongue deliciously filthy until finally she comes, wailing out her release.

While she's still trembling and gasping in the aftermath of her orgasm, he sits up. Rolls the johnnie on that thick, gorgeous cock of his. Lies back down, rubbing against her teasingly. She flinches a bit, oversensitized, but he's having none of that. Slides against her more insistently, lubricating himself with her juices. "So, princess," he says conversationally, even as he squeezes one breast between his long, elegant fingers, "when was the last time you had a good sweaty shag like this, hm?"

She opens her eyes and glares at him and his knowing smirk. "Two weeks ago," she lies, and he laughs.

"More like 18 months ago, am I right?" he taunts her. "Even if you did have sex two weeks ago - which we both know you didn't - I doubt whoever it was did it for you. Not like I can." He thrusts against her sharply, and her pussy throbs at the feel of him. "Admit it, and I'll give you what you've _really_ been gagging for." He runs his tongue over his bottom lip in a vulgar manner. "Not that I don't like the taste of you, princess, and not that you don't like me going down on you, but you and I both know what you've been wanting from me. How you've missed the feeling of being stuffed with my cock."

He leans lower, breathes in her ear, "Just say it, Molly. Admit you were lying...and I'll give you what you've been missing."

She turns her head to the side, stubbornly remaining silent. It's none of his damn business when she last had sex. She won't tell him about her sad attempt at a normal relationship, about Tom and his dog and Friday nights at the pub with his mates and Sunday dinners with his parents. They'd had quite a lot of sex during the six months they were together. Not great sex, but nice sex. Normal sex. Nothing involving handcuffs or enormous mahogany desks.

But eventually she'd realized how _boring_ normal could be, had broken things off with nice, sweet, baffled Tom. That had been two months ago, and she hadn't even been interested in trying it on with anyone else. Too soon, she'd counseled herself...but knew now that it wasn't true.

That she'd been lying to herself about what - and who - she wanted.

 _So what else was new?_

But she's not quite ready to relinquish control to Sherlock, not yet. So she shrugs. Pretends indifference. "Fine, then, if you're not actually interested, go ahead and tell me what it is you came here to tell me. You said it yourself; you didn't escape. So what deal did you cut that got you out of prison without so much as a handler following you around to make sure you don't pull any crap like this?"

And she peers around her bedroom in an exaggerated show of looking for someone skulking about.

He has the audacity to laugh at her sarcasm. "Didn't peg you for the type to go for a three-way, but if that's your kink I know a few blokes who'd be up for it - or would you prefer another bird in the lovenest? Oh, wait, I have it - you're just into being watched, is that it?" And he leers at her.

If her hands were free she'd slap him. Three times. Twice on one cheek and once on the other. Since that's not an option, all she does is snarl, "Either put up or shut up, Holmes. My love life is none of your business."

"Hmm, seems like it's _exactly_ my business, princess," he purrs, rubbing up against her like a bloody great cat, even rasping his tongue along her neck to complete the mental image. "Being as I'm about to fuck you senseless and all."

"This isn't a love life, this is just a mistake," she protests, but the words sound weak, feeble, even to her own ears.

"Second mistake we've made then," he agrees, diving in for a ferocious kiss that leaves her breathless and aching for him, all the animosity and mixed emotions swept aside in the wake of lust and wanting he always manages to pull out of her. Even in court, even when she was testifying, she couldn't help thinking about how much she wanted him, even fantasized about letting him take her right there over the plaintiff's table while the judge shouted for order and everyone milled around in confusion and fascination...damn him for being right about her heretofore unknown voyeurism kink.

Damn him for so many things, but damn him most of all for continuing to tease and torment her. What difference would it make, really, if she told him the truth about poor Tom and his fumbling attempts at lovemaking during their relationship?

Apparently Sherlock's grown tired of waiting for her answer, because she feels the very tip of his cock pressing between her legs, teasing her entrance. She spreads herself wide for him, groans into his mouth as he kisses her again and again and again until he's completely inside her. Stretching her wide, filling her as she savors the delicious burn. "Two months," she whispers against his lips, offering the confession now that he's no longer demanding it of her. "It's been two months."

She almost adds, _and all I did was wish it was you,_ but closes her mouth on the words.

He doesn't need any more ammo to use against her, after all.

She whimpers when he pulls out of her, then groans in anticipation when he reaches down and grabs her thigh. Hoists it up. Presses the head of his thick cock between her legs again. Enters her roughly .

Wetly.

Deliciously.

She loves it.

And judging by the way he's groaning against her lips, the way his body moves against hers, he's loving it just as much as she is.


	3. Don't Look Back

_A/N: And so we come to the end of this smutty little fic. Will there be a follow up? Anything is possible! Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing and favoriting. You guys are amazing! Thanks once again to hobbitsdoitbetter for inspiring this fic and for reading the previous chapters over for me. (All errors are mine since this chapter has not been beta'd.) TTFN!_

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Sherlock bites off a curse as he thrusts deeper into Molly's sweet little cunt. He's slept with dozens of women, all of them forgettable. Even her, until he found out she was MI-5. That she got one over on him, planted a bug in wee Jimmy's oversized office after they'd fucked on his equally oversized desk.

 _Little bastard always was one for overcompensating._

His brother-in-law vanishes from his thoughts as Molly twists her hips _just so_ , and Sherlock muffles a groan against the soft soft skin of her throat before biting down, sucking hard, making sure to leave a mark she won't soon forget.

He should hate her; she's the reason he was in prison, after all. The reason his sister is _still_ in prison. Solitary confinement, actually, after there were a few...incidents...with other prisoners. And the guards. And the warden.

None of that matters to him now. All that matters is the woman lying beneath him, the one making those soft keening noises as their bodies slap together. The one he'd sworn to take down the way she'd taken him down.

 _Fuck plans,_ he thinks as he feels the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades, down the sides of his face and along his forehead. _Fuck everything. Euri was out of control when she decided to kill Mycroft, and I was an idiot for helping her._

He stops short of telling himself he deserved what he got when he was sentenced to life in prison: no pair of big brown eyes, no matter how gorgeous, were worth that.

But he resolves to enjoy this moment, this brief respite before he goes out to do what he's promised to do, in exchange for his freedom - what he'd have been happy to do even without that enticement.

Take down Jim Moriarty. Wrestle control of the Holmes' territory back from his greedy little paws.

And maybe come back after he's done and have a private celebration with Molly Hooper, to whom he's rapidly becoming addicted.

In the meantime, right here, right now, he's going to enjoy fucking Molly Hooper until she screams out her pleasure, until he empties himself inside her and they're both a tangle of sweaty limbs and utter fulfillment.

With that goal in mind he maneuvers himself to a kneeling position, slipping out of her only briefly before shoving his way back inside again. His lips peel back from his teeth as he grabs her hips, shifting her roughly into position, watching her as her eyes snap open and she stares at him. "Come for me, princess," he says, moving one hand over to the place where their bodies are joined. He presses his thumb against her clit and her body bucks and heaves, short, sharp cries of pleasure tearing their way through her throat. He watches entranced as her lips part and her head thrashes and when she finally goes limp, he leans back down and snarls, "My turn now."

He takes his pleasure of her, merciless as he thrusts against her, watching his cock as it moves in and out of her. After a moment she lifts her head again, her tongue darting out to touch the corner of her lips as her gaze lands on his and that's. It.

He's done.

He comes with a roar, fingers gripping her hips so tightly they'll leave bruises, pumping into her and wishing suddenly they'd done without the johnnie, that his cum and her juices were mixing together. He wants to smear it over her body like some animal, finish claiming her as his and that thought makes him jerk away before he's fully soft.

 _This woman is dangerous, and not just because she's MI5._

He leaves the bed, removes the johnny, drops it into the bin by her door and heads into her bathroom for a quick piss and washup. He catches his reflection in the mirror over the sink; his hair is a sweaty mess, his face is flushed and he looks like exactly what he feels: a man who's just had one of the best shags of his life.

Whistling, he strolls out of the loo and back into her bedroom. She's still lying there, of course; he gets the key from the bedside table and undoes the cuffs before surprising them both by dropping back onto the bed next to her. "Could use a smoke," he says, but doesn't move to grab the pack out of his discarded trousers.

She sits up with her back to him, rubbing her wrists and frowning at the red marks. "Crap, I'm gonna have to wear long sleeves for a week," she complains.

"And a high collar," he points out complacently.

She turns to glare at him; he ogles her tits and finds himself wondering how long it'll take before he'll be ready for another go-round.

Regretfully, he realizes what a bad idea that would be.

After all, he has places to be. Things to do.

Number one on that list being Jim Moriarty.

"So," Molly says as he loses himself in contemplation of the future. "This deal you've cut, is…"

"Is none of your business," he says, his tone milder than it should be. Damn, he's really getting soft on this woman.

 _Seems only fair, since he was so 'hard' on her just now._

He sniggers inwardly at the juvenile joke, but keeps his voice cold and deliberate as he speaks. "All you need to know is that I've made one, and that you'd best stay out of my way while I do what needs doing." Some devil makes him add, "Or else."

"Or else what? I'll regret it?" she asks sardonically.

"Or else I'm likely to drag you to the nearest dark corner and shag you boneless," he answers, pleased to see she's still capable of blushing.

"I'd like to see you try," is her weak attempt at a retort.

Her blush deepens and he knows she realizes how poor a response that was.

How easily it could be misread as a challenge.

A challenge he is very much up for.

He leans forward, brushes a few sweaty strands of hair from her cheek. "Try me and see," he murmurs, then kisses her. Hard. Possessively.

She kisses back just as hard, then shoves him away with a huff of annoyance. "You've delivered your message," she snaps. "So get out of my flat and just remember - the next time I see you-"

"You'll be just as happy to see me as you were this time," he finishes for her. With a wink, he stands up, stretches, being sure to give her a proper show before he begins picking up his clothes. He dresses slowly while she sits on her bed, clutching the wrinkled sheets and duvet to her chest, and he can feel her eyes on him the entire time.

Once he's fully clothed down to his shoes, he heads for the door. He doesn't mean to turn back, but as his hand grasps the doorknob, he hesitates. Looks over his shoulder. Thinks about climbing back into bed with her for round two.

No. He has a mission.

"Good-bye, Molly Hooper," he says softly. "I doubt we'll meet again."

"Never say never," he thinks he hears her say as he closes the bedroom door behind him.

He smiles.

Never say never, indeed.

The End?


End file.
